“Ouch!” my poor husband yelped, stubbing his toe on yet another bookstack. He looked at the floor, and then at me, rather disgusted I’m afraid. “Must you just leave them about all over the floor?” he asked.
The irony of it is, I’d just moved that particular stack about five minutes before he came into the room, fearing he would do exactly what he just did when he came in on his nightly window closing rounds.
“Well, I’d love to have built in bookshelves in this room,” I remarked defensively, “but you know that’s certainly not in the budget.”
“Why so many stacks?” he whined. “Couldn’t they all go on one pile there in the corner?”
I sighed. Really, he just doesn’t understand.
“There’s a stack to be reviewed,” I explained, “and another to add to Bookmooch, and another of those to be read next, and another that I discovered in the basement and totally forgot I even owned…”
“Fine – whatever,” he said, wandering out shaking his head in utter bewilderment.
It’s true, I really don’t have a decent bookshelf in the house.
If only money grew on trees (as my father so often informed me it most emphatically did not), I would purchase these shelves.
And then everyone’s toes would be safe.
(thanks, Rachel, for giving me something to dream about 😉